What You Need
by Musicangel913
Summary: Several events from the series (and some of my own additions) from Molly's POV. Great fun to get inside her head. Moffat & Gatiss get the credit, I just play. Rated T just in case.
1. First Meeting

Molly Hooper wasn't a person who was easily intimidated – after all, she worked with dead bodies for a living (she smirked at the irony), and if that didn't make a girl squeamish, nothing would. But there was one thing that, no matter what Molly did, turned her speech to stutters and her insides to jelly. That something – or rather, _someone_ – was Sherlock Holmes.

Molly wasn't quite sure what it was about the "consulting detective," as he fashioned himself, that fascinated her so much. Maybe those piercing blue eyes that seemed to see straight through Molly's face right into her mind. Maybe the way he dressed – crisply tailored suits and that wool Belstaff coat that so perfectly suited his tall, thin frame. Or perhaps it was just that the man was such an enigma, that he could so easily read other people's secrets but revealed none of his own. Whatever the reason, Sherlock had captured Molly's attention completely.

She'd hardly been at St. Bart's a week when they first met, but she could remember it as if it were yesterday. She was just finishing up the paperwork on the first of her group of bodies when he'd walked in. He gave off the impression that he'd been there before and didn't look nearly so shocked to see Molly as she was to see him.

"Molly Hooper, I presume?" His voice was a deep baritone, but surprisingly soft and musical.

"Y-yes," was her stammered reply.

"Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective." He offered her a hand, which she shook.

"'Consulting detective?' Don't believe I've heard of those." She inwardly winced at how stupid that sounded.

"It's because I'm the only one in the world – I invented the job. When the police find themselves out of their depths – which is often – they consult me."

"And…you solve their cases for them?" Molly's eyes widened.

"Well, yes…usually," he added, a small smile playing across his thin lips. Molly's stomach did a little flip-flop. Who _was_ this man? Those pale features, the finely chiseled cheekbones, the secretive smile…and his _eyes!_ _Goodness_ they were beautiful! Molly took a deep breath and tried to regain her composure, but it was too late – not even five minutes, and the man had melted her like butter.

"Oh. Um…well then, Mr. Holmes-" Molly began.

"Sherlock, please," he cut in, smiling again.

"Ok…Sherlock. What can I do for you?"

"I believe you have a Dr. Miller in the mortuary today?" he asked. Molly consulted her clipboard.

"Yes, right here. John C. Miller, 57, heart attack," she read.

"Heart attack, you say? Interesting." Sherlock paused. "Might I see the body? Here's the order from the Yard, if it's necessary," he added, removing an official-looking half-sheet of paper from his inner coat pocket and showing it to her. It was indeed from Scotland Yard, signed by one Gregory Lestrade, DI. Molly knew the name – her boss had introduced Lestrade a few days prior.

"Yes…yes of course," she said, returning the order. She unzipped the body bag, and Sherlock was quiet for several minutes as he minutely examined the victim.

"Yes…well, the symptoms seem obvious, but they don't explain the motive," he muttered to himself. Then, "Can I borrow your mobile?"

"Er…sorry?" The question caught Molly off-guard.

"Your mobile phone – can I borrow it?"

"Um…sure?" Molly produced her phone from her lab coat pocket and handed it to Sherlock, who immediately started typing, his long, slender fingers gliding rapidly across the keys.

"What are you doing?" Molly asked.

"Giving you my number," was the response. "I need to know what happens to this body in the next hour, very important, and I prefer to text. Give me a buzz if you see anything." He tossed the phone back to a stunned Molly, who barely caught it. "Very nice meeting you, Miss Hooper. Now remember, the next hour is _crucial_, so don't leave anything out. Laters!" With a wink and a swish of his coat, he was gone.

Molly sat down on a stool, unable to comprehend what had just happened. This man – this intriguing and unbelievably _gorgeous_ man – had just _given her his number?_ She saw blood, horrible disfigurations, and death every day, but it was only now that, for the first time in her life, Molly Hooper nearly fainted.


	2. Riding Crops and Coffee Cups

Molly thought Sherlock's influence over her might get better over time, but it only just got worse. Every time he strode into the lab, she went from confident pathologist to quivering child in less time than it took to say "Sherlock Holmes". And then there was the blatant flirting. Molly knew perfectly well that he only did it to get something from her – Sherlock wasn't one to date, being "married to his work," and all that – but the fact that he was so very, _very_ good at it didn't help. An offhand comment about her hair ("You've parted it differently today, it looks better like that"), her makeup ("That color lipstick really suits you") or whatever else came to mind – you name it, Molly fell for it. It wasn't all bad, though, considering – at least it meant she got to spend time with him. And occasionally text him, even if it wasn't about a date.

* * *

One fine autumn morning, Molly was busy with a chemical analysis when the door of the lab slammed open and Sherlock burst in, looking preoccupied and slightly annoyed.

"The morgue," he said in response to Molly's raised eyebrows. She needed no further explanation but left the lab and walked downstairs with him to the aforementioned place.

"Yes…this is the one," Sherlock said, indicating the body of a slightly overweight man on the far right table. "How fresh?"

"Just in. 67, natural causes. He used to work here," Molly replied. Sherlock's response was to pull out a riding crop.

"Fine. We'll start with this," he said. Much to Molly's astonishment, he then started violently beating the body with the riding crop, over and over and over. He was putting an awful lot of strength into it, Molly thought. She didn't quite know why, but the whole image was kind of…hot.

"Um…bad day?" she asked timidly once Sherlock had finished several minutes later.

"I need to know what bruises form in the next 20 minutes. Text me."

"Of course." Then, feeling brave, she added, "I was wondering…"

"Are you wearing lipstick?" he interrupted suddenly. "You weren't before."

"Um…I just refreshed it a bit." Molly tried to sound casual, secretly glad that Sherlock had noticed the change.

"Hmm. You were saying?"

"I was wondering…whether you'd like to have coffee?"

"Black, two sugars, please, I'll be upstairs," he responded with a small smile, then left the morgue.

"Ok," Molly squeaked. Then she rolled her eyes. Why couldn't she just tell him how she felt? Why didn't he understand what she'd meant when she asked about the coffee?

_"Oh, he definitely understood," _Molly thought to herself. _"He's Sherlock freaking Holmes, remember?"_ She sighed and went to leave the room. Even if it wasn't a date, she might as well go see about that coffee. It was probably about as close as she was going to get. Then she rolled her eyes again. _What the hell,_ she thought. _I don't even _like_ coffee…_

* * *

Molly returned to the lab several minutes later to find it occupied by three men. One, of course, was Sherlock, who was busy fiddling with the microscope. She didn't know the heavyset gentleman's name but recognized him by sight, having seen him chatting with Sherlock before. He was talking now too, readjusting his thick glasses as he spoke. The other, Molly didn't know at all. He was on the shorter side, well built, simply dressed, and carried a cane. His sandy hair was cut short, and his eyes took in every inch of the lab. Molly thought she heard him say, "A bit different than my day." He'd worked at Bart's too, then? The men paused in their conversation as Molly entered.

"Ah, Molly, coffee, thank you," Sherlock said, accepting the mug from her. His fingers lightly brushed hers as he took the cup, and Molly tried her best not to visibly shudder, managing to contain herself to a slight tremble that she didn't think he noticed – but, Sherlock being Sherlock, he probably had.

"Why'd you take your lipstick off?" he asked suddenly. Molly felt her cheeks burning. Was there _anything_ he didn't catch?

"Wasn't working for me," she said, as calmly as possible. No _way_ was she going to let on in front of everyone that she'd taken the lipstick off because of Sherlock's earlier comment about it.

"Pity," he said. "Should've kept it on, your mouth's too small now." He took a sip of his coffee and returned to the microscope.

"Ok." There was that squeak again. _Dammit!_ Molly nodded politely to Sherlock's companions and then left the lab before she could say or do anything else she'd regret later. She found refuge in the women's room across the hall and stared at her reflection in the mirror over the sink.

"What am I supposed to do?" she thought to herself. She was pretty sure nobody else had ever driven her this crazy before. Maybe she should take the rest of the afternoon off? No – she still had that analysis to finish, and she wasn't about to let Sherlock Holmes, no matter how much he made her swoon, drive her that far. After all, Bart's was _her_ workplace, not his. Strengthening her resolve, Molly pulled the tube of blush pink from her pocket, reapplied it – ok, maybe that decision was partially because of Sherlock – and left the restroom.

She returned to the lab, gave a curt nod to the three men, and resumed her work, concentrating so intently that she was surprised when she finally looked up from the microscope and found them gone. At least the analysis was successful. Pleased with her progress for the afternoon, Molly packed up her things and headed home, more than ready to curl up on the couch with Toby, the remote, and a steaming cup of tea.


	3. Jim, from IT

Molly sighed, staring down at the long list of names that still awaited her on her clipboard. There'd been a lot of activity in the morgue lately – fifteen bodies in just the last few days, and that was nothing compared to the activity of her living colleagues, most notably Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock had been in and out of the morgue almost constantly over the last week, and he'd made yet another entrance just that morning, but for once, Molly wasn't glad to see him. For whatever reason, Sherlock had been in an incredibly foul mood recently, and his snapping had been almost too much to bear – more than once, he'd nearly reduced Molly to tears with his harsh tones, and, of course, Sherlock being Sherlock, he hadn't even noticed. She'd decided that a case must be going badly – Sherlock was the exact opposite when his work was going well, like an overly energetic pup in pursuit of a hot scent. Rather than face his wrath for the sixth day in a row, Molly determined to avoid Sherlock as best she could today. Luckily, this, at least, proved easy enough, as she had a long list of lab chores to finish and he was spending almost all of his time in the morgue. There was one hairy moment when they found themselves alone in the lab, but Molly determinedly carried on with her work, only making eye contact long enough to catch the brief nod Sherlock sent her way before he left the room once more. Glancing up at the clock, Molly breathed a sigh of relief when she saw she'd made it to lunch unscathed. _Only a few more hours,_ she thought as she tidied her things and headed to the lunchroom.

As she loaded up her plate with steaming pasta, Molly's thoughts drifted again to Sherlock's perplexing behavior. He hadn't even asked her for a cup of coffee all week, never mind requested information about various corpses or flattered her to get extra lab time. She really wanted to ask him what was wrong, but she knew talking about feelings – or talking about anything, for that matter – wasn't his style, so she'd just have to ride this one out. Sighing, she turned to make her way to the seating area and almost ran right into the person in front of her.

"Oh my goodness, I'm so sorry!" Molly cried earnestly as she fumbled to keep her tray from toppling. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, no problem," the man responded, flashing a broad smile. "Is that always how you introduce yourself to people?" he added cheekily.

"Um…no," Molly said, trying not to blush. "Just a bit preoccupied."

"Ah, well," her companion said, nodding thoughtfully, "hard not to be, these days. So much craziness around here, right? Anyways, I'm Jim, from IT. I'm kinda new around here, so…mind if I join you?" Molly took a second to study him. He was of middling height, trimly built, and his large, chocolate-brown eyes had a bit of a twinkle to them. _Ok,_ Molly admitted to herself, _he's friendly, and kind of cute too. Why not?_

"Not at all! I'm Molly, by the way," Molly said, making her way to a table. Jim took the seat across from her and they fell to talking.

"What did you say you do, then?" Jim asked between bites of his sandwich.

"I didn't, but I'm a pathologist," Molly replied.

"Oh, so you actually work with the dead bodies and all? Totally too squeamish for that, I'll stick to my computers. The lab sounds cool though!" Molly liked Jim already – he seemed really enthusiastic and fun.

"Yeah, I guess it is. Although it's not fun at the moment, Sherlock's been hanging around all week and he's not in a good mood."

"Sherlock? Wait…you don't mean…Sherlock _Holmes?"_ Jim's eyes widened.

"Yeah…what about him?"

"You _know_ _Sherlock Holmes?"_ Jim sounded positively astounded.

"Um…well, yeah, I do," Molly admitted, not sure what else to say. She saw Sherlock so often that it never really occurred to her that even other Bart's people didn't. "He comes to the morgue a lot to do investigations for cases, stuff like that."

"I mean, he's only like the best detective _ever!"_ Jim said, sounding more like a little kid than anything else. "He's practically my _hero!_ Do you think…" he paused. "Do you think I could meet him?"

"He's just a person, really," Molly said with a laugh, "but sure, why not? You can come check out the lab, and I'll introduce you. Probably best to wait till this case is closed, whatever it is. Then he might actually acknowledge you in some way that doesn't involve trying to bite your head off."

"Touché," said Jim with a wink. "Head biting is not at the top of my to-do list right now." Molly laughed again. Cute, _and_ a great sense of humor. She was liking this guy more and more. Twirling her pasta on her fork, she said, "So tell me more about yourself. How'd you end up here at Bart's?"

"Oh, nothing fancy really," he replied, brushing her comment aside with a wave of the hand that still held half his sandwich. "I'm just a computer guy. I help make sure there aren't any viruses – computer viruses, not the real stuff you deal with downstairs – so that everything runs smoothly in the labs. The more important question," he continued, fixing his large eyes on Molly's face, "is whether or not you'd like to go to dinner this Friday after work?" He gave her that lopsided grin once more, and Molly couldn't help but respond in kind.

"I'd love to."

"Great! See you then!" They cleared their table and went their separate ways, Molly with a little spring in her step that certainly hadn't been there only moments before.


	4. The Harsh Truth

Rat-a-tat-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap! Molly's fingers raced across her keyboard as she signed into her laptop. What a day! She needed to vent her frustrations – the sooner, the better. She clicked the internet icon and opened her blog, finding the page where she could start a new entry. The pink background was exceedingly cheerful – not at all reflective of her current mood – and cute, fuzzy kittens looked back at her from their place on the screen. Across her lap sprawled the real-life version of those kittens, her cat Toby, who stared up at Molly with wide green eyes and meowed softly, as if questioning his mistress's distressed expression.

Molly absentmindedly scratched Toby's ears as she contemplated the flashing cursor onscreen. Now that she was here, she had no idea what to write. After all, how could she possibly put into words the tumult and turmoil of the past week?

Up until then, everything had been going great. Molly ate with Jim whenever they had the same shift, and they'd been on three amazing dates, the last of which culminated in the two of them watching musicals on telly in Molly's flat, mugs of hot chocolate in hand and Toby curled up between them on the sofa cushion. "Jim really liked you," Molly thought as she stroked Toby. But Toby wouldn't be seeing Jim anymore, and neither would Molly…and it was (mostly) Sherlock's fault.

Last week, Molly had finally been able to make good on her promise to show Jim around the lab and introduce him to Sherlock. Sherlock's mood had greatly improved recently, strings of cases coming to nice conclusions one after another, so Molly figured it was as good a time as any. They entered the lab to find Sherlock busy with the microscope, as usual, and John Watson, his flatmate, watching him work.

"Hello Sherlock, John!" Molly greeted them brightly. She and Jim had just giggled their way through another lunch hour, so she was in a good mood.

"Molly, how are you?" John asked warmly. Molly liked John – he was always nice to her, no matter what.

"Fine, thanks! Just showing Jim around. He's my boyfriend, he works upstairs."

"Jim, from IT," Jim said. "Pleasure to meet you, John."

"Indeed," John responded, shaking Jim's proffered hand.

"Gay," was Sherlock's input.

"Sorry?" Molly asked, hoping she'd heard wrong.

"Hey," Sherlock tried again, but Molly knew he'd changed his earlier thought.

"Wow," Jim breathed, walking over to the microscope, "Sherlock Holmes! So happy to meet you!" Sherlock ignored him and continued working.

"Jim, from IT." Again, nothing. Jim tried several times to engage Sherlock in conversation, but clearly, Sherlock wasn't having any of it. He glanced at Molly, puzzled, and she rolled her eyes and mouthed, _I'm sorry!_ Did Sherlock really have to be so rude?

"Well, I won't keep you then," Jim finally said, turning to go. As he turned, he accidentally hit a beaker with his elbow, and he had to stoop quickly to keep it from crashing to the floor, nearly sending several others down with it in the process. Only his quick reflexes kept anything from spilling.

"Oops!" he said. "Sorry about that!" he grinned, but clearly there was no getting a response from Sherlock Holmes when he was in concentration mode – his "mind palace," Molly said he called it. "I'll call you?" he said to Molly. She nodded, and he backed out of the room. Jim had barely left when Molly rounded on Sherlock.

"What do you mean, gay?" she asked, her tone brusque and her voice raised. "He's my boyfriend!" The detective looked up at her, his favorite, "isn't it obvious?" look on his handsome features.

"Oh please, Molly, isn't it obvious?" he asked, his concentration now on her face, "He only gave it away in so many ways…" And Sherlock proceeded to outline each of those ways in his brutally methodical manner – Jim's clothes, his hairstyle, something about his underwear (_"His underwear?" Molly interjected incredulously. "Yes, his underwear," Sherlock said matter-of-factly),_ the fact that he'd used the "dropping the beaker" trick to slip a piece of paper with his number on it under the microscope's base… "So, there you have it, Molly," Sherlock finished. "Totally gay."

Molly had no response except to turn on her heel and storm from the room. As she left, she caught John's eye, and she was mildly relieved to see that he looked almost as horrified as she felt. Molly heard his indignant _"Sherlock!" _as the lab's door slammed behind her. Molly had gone home after that shift and pulled her duvet off her bed, dragged it into the living room, and buried herself under it on the sofa, where she'd proceeded to watch several hours of crap telly, accompanied by cheap take-away and Toby (at least he was willing to cuddle).

Molly paused in her thoughts, shuddering as she remembered the scene. She had felt absolutely awful, and she remembered thinking that it couldn't possibly get any worse.

But of course, she was wrong. Barely a week later, here she was, having just found out that Jim, sweet, funny Jim, was actually a dangerous criminal mastermind who, just the other day, had strapped explosives to people _for fun_ and then sent Sherlock cryptic text messages that forced him to solve several cases in a matter of hours if he wanted the potential victims to live. In one instance, Sherlock had solved the case but failed to save the hostage – as Molly understood it, the old woman had gone too far by attempting to describe her captor, and Jim, taking no chances, had pulled the trigger. _Boom._ Even worse, the lady had been in an apartment complex at the time, and twelve innocent people had died. _Twelve people. Dead._ Because Jim was _playing a game!_ Jesus. The whole circus chase ended with Jim and Sherlock meeting in a local swimming hall, where Sherlock found John covered in explosives and Jim's cronies pointing lasers at both of their heads. Jim had relented long enough for Sherlock to remove John's explosive vest and toss it across the floor, but then changed his mind and repositioned his snipers, to which Sherlock calmly pulled a gun from his pocket and aimed it first at Jim, then at the explosives. For almost an entire minute, no one moved, Jim's brown eyes locked on Sherlock's blue ones, Sherlock's hand steady as he kept his weapon trained on the bomb. Oddly enough, it was Jim's phone that broke the silence, and the tension.

John had told Molly the whole story. Up until this point in his tale, she'd refused to believe they were talking about the same person, but then John mentioned his ringtone.

"'Stayin' Alive,' by the Bee Gees. Kind of an ironic choice, given the circumstances, but we certainly weren't in a position to debate that one," John had said with a wry smile.

Molly groaned. Here was a detail she couldn't question. After all, how many times had she heard that same ringtone issuing from Jim's phone? A fair few.

John continued with his story. For whatever reason, the caller's information had been enough to make Jim – or Moriarty, as Molly knew him now – call off his snipers for good and leave the pool. Yes, Moriarty, the same name that had been connected with several of Sherlock's previous cases. The mysterious name now had a face to go with it, a face which, unfortunately, belonged to Molly's boyfriend. When he finished, John looked at her and said, "I'm sorry, Molly." Molly nodded, feeling numb but appreciating the gesture. John wasn't really her type, but at least he cared.

Molly shuddered again. Was anything _ever_ going to go right for her in the romance department? First she falls for a consulting detective who takes advantage of her at every opportunity, then she finally scores a date with a nice guy…who turns out to be a consulting criminal? Dear God. She stared at her computer screen again, readjusting Toby so she could reach the keyboard properly (he'd fallen asleep on one of her arms). No, this whole mess couldn't be put into words, and even if it could, she didn't care to try – it was too raw and painful. Instead, she settled for something short and (bitter)sweet:

_I won't be keeping this diary anymore. It was all a lie. Everything he said._

_But, got to stay positive. Nobody wants an unhappy person working in a morgue._

_Not that they want a particularly happy one either._

_Stay happy everyone xx_


	5. The Woman

Molly stared at the piles of clothes on her bed, feeling both incredulous and more than a bit worried. More than half her wardrobe lay scattered across her duvet, and she still hadn't found anything worth wearing to Sherlock and John's Christmas party. She'd been assured that the party would be a small affair – just Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, the usual people – but she still wanted to look her best. It wasn't every day her friends got to see her in something other than her lab coat…and she'd be lying if she said she wasn't doing it for Sherlock, at least a little.

She started rummaging through the piles again, rejecting everything she touched. Too short, too motherly, too suggestive, too frumpy, wrong color, not festive enough…nothing seemed right! Feeling frustrated, Molly glanced at the clock and gulped. She only had a few hours. Now almost frantically, she started on what remained in her closet. No…no…no…definitely not…no…_yes_. Why hadn't she thought of it before? Her black velvet was perfect, and it would look great with her new silver earrings. Finally satisfied, Molly carefully hung the dress on the back of her bathroom door – no sense leaving it on the bed, she'd come out of the shower to find it covered in Toby fur – and checked the clock again. Yikes.

Molly dropped to her knees and pulled a long box containing wrapping supplies out from under her bed, then extracted a large shopping bag filled with presents from amongst the shoes in her closet. As hastily as she could, she wrapped the presents and adorned them with ribbon, then taped on her handmade gift tags as a finishing touch. She then rearranged the gifts in the shopping bag – easier to carry that way – before fetching Sherlock's present and placing it on top of the pile. She'd wrapped Sherlock's present as soon as she'd bought it, taking the utmost care the ensure it looked perfect – Sherlock would surely make some snarky comment otherwise. Molly sighed, a little sorry that she hadn't saved enough time to wrap the others' gifts just as well, but it couldn't be helped now. Her slapdash effort would have to do.

Fifteen minutes later, Molly stepped from the steaming shower, thoroughly scrubbed and shampooed. She dried her hair and pulled on her dress, marveling at how soft she found the inside lining. Then she set to carefully arranging her auburn locks, securing her front-most pieces with a pretty clip and allowing the rest to fall down her back in soft waves. Finally, she applied a subtle layer of makeup, finishing it off with a touch of festive red lipstick and the silver hoops. Molly examined herself in the mirror, took a deep breath, and nodded. It was time to go.

* * *

A light snow was falling as Molly's cab turned onto Baker Street. Molly saw festive lights decorating 221B's windows, and a sign on the door invited her in. As she climbed the stairs, Molly heard the final strains of a Christmas carol emanating from Sherlock's violin, followed by Mrs. Hudson's "That was lovely, dear!"

"Merry Christmas, everyone!" Molly said cheerfully as she entered the flat.

"Molly, dear, welcome!" Mrs. Hudson replied warmly. Everyone else greeted her in kind, except for Sherlock, who seemed absorbed in his computer and merely nodded without looking her way. Molly tried not to let this bother her – Sherlock was _not_ going to spoil her evening. John helped Molly with her coat, and Lestrade offered her a glass of red wine, which she gladly accepted.

"How's the hip?" Molly asked Mrs. Hudson.

"Ooh, it's atrocious, but thanks for asking, dear," Mrs. Hudson replied.

"I've seen much worse, but then I do post-mortems." As soon as she spoke the words, Molly realized how awkward they sounded, and her face flushed at her comrades' stunned looks.

"Oh, God. Sorry," she mumbled.

"Don't make jokes, Molly," Sherlock said impatiently.

"No. Sorry." She took a sip of her wine and tried again. "I wasn't expecting to see you, Lestrade. I thought you were out of town for Christmas."

"Tomorrow morning," Lestrade replied with a smile. "Me and the wife – we're back together. It's all sorted."

"Wonderful, that's great news!" Molly said. At the same time, Sherlock interjected with, "No, she's sleeping with a P.E. teacher." Lestrade's smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

"Oh, dear," Molly murmured. "And John. I hear you're off to your sister's, is that right?"

"Yeah. First time ever, she's cleaned up her act. She's off the booze."

"Nope," was the response from the desk.

"Shut up, Sherlock!" John said angrily.

"I see you've got a new boyfriend, Molly, and you're serious about him," Sherlock said suddenly.

"Um…sorry, what?"

"In fact, you're seeing him tonight and giving him a gift!"

"Oh God, take a day off," John muttered.

"Shut up and have a drink," Lestrade suggested, offering Sherlock a glass.

"Oh, come on. Surely you've all seen the present at the top of the bag – perfectly wrapped with a bow. All the others are slapdash at best." He began walking towards Molly, who found herself rooted to the spot in horror, her widening eyes fixed on the consulting detective. "It's for someone special, then," he said with a grin. Molly tried to drown Sherlock out, but each word cut through her like a knife, and she was forced to listen as he continued his cross-examination of her gift, completely oblivious to how his words affected her.

"The shade of red echoes her lipstick – either an unconscious association or one that she's deliberately trying to encourage," he said as he picked up the gift. "Either way, Miss Hooper has lurrrve on her mind. The fact that she's serious about him is clear from the fact she's giving him a gift at all." The purr in his deep voice was killing her, and Molly caught John glancing at her anxiously. _Crap_ – he must've noticed how uncomfortable she was.

"That would suggest long-term hopes, however forlorn, and that she's seeing him tonight is evident from her make-up and what she's wearing. Obviously trying to compensate for the size of her mouth and breasts..." Sherlock's harsh analysis trailed off suddenly as he looked at the writing on the gift tag. Molly knew exactly what those cold, beautiful eyes were now seeing:

_Dearest Sherlock  
Love Molly xxx_

Molly swallowed hard and looked at Sherlock. He was speechless for once, and his handsome face wore an expression of…was that shame?

"You always say such horrible things. Every time. Always. _Always."_ The last word was barely a whisper as she fought back the tears that threatened to spill over.

"I am sorry," Sherlock said. "Forgive me." He took a step closer.

"Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper," Sherlock said softly. He then leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss on her cheek. Molly stared into her wine glass, heartbroken.

She barely had time to react to the chain of events, however, when a loud noise, describable only as an orgasmic sigh, echoed from somewhere close by. Molly gasped and turned a violent shade of red.

"Oh dear God, no, that wasn't…I…I didn't…" she spluttered, unable to explain the highly embarrassing circumstances.

"No, that was me," Sherlock interrupted. Everyone stared at him in amazement. "My _phone,_" he added, rolling his eyes dramatically. He checked the screen, then turned his attention to the mantelpiece, where a small gift had hitherto gone unnoticed. Molly heard John exchange a few words with Sherlock – something about fifty-seven, she was still too stunned to catch the particulars – before Sherlock cut him off and abruptly departed from the room. Molly took a large sip of wine, doing her best to keep her hands from shaking, as John followed Sherlock, peppering him with questions. A few minutes later, they heard a door slam, and John returned alone, signaling with a shake of his head that it was a lost cause.

The little group exchanged gifts in silence, and the party broke up a few minutes later – after all that had just occurred, nobody really felt like staying.

"Need a ride home, Molly?" Lestrade asked her. "I've got to swing by the station so it's on my way."

"Yes, thank you," Molly said. She was grateful for the DI's offer, and his kindness. He probably suspected she wanted to get away from Baker Street as quickly as she could without having to wait for another cab, which was exactly the case.

"Merry Christmas, Molly," John said as he passed over her coat. "And…I'm sorry," he added, giving her a warm hug. Molly felt her eyes welling up again. So many people who cared…but never the one that mattered most.

* * *

A few hours later, Molly found herself in the morgue once more. Mycroft had called and asked if she could stop in, saying it was urgent and asking her to please not say anything to Sherlock if he were to contact her before seeing the body for himself. Molly didn't understand the elder Holmes' request but acquiesced, discarding her party dress for a comfy, oversized Christmas sweater and her lab coat before heading over to Bart's. The body in question was that of a woman, whose face was bashed in beyond all recognition but was otherwise relatively unscathed. Mycroft and Sherlock soon arrived.

"Had her brought here," Mycroft was saying as the brothers entered.

"You didn't have to come in, Molly," Sherlock said, almost curtly.

"It's ok," she said, trying to sound cheerful. "Everyone else was busy with…Christmas," she finished lamely. His insults from earlier still stung. "The face is a bit bashed up, it might be a bit difficult…" She drew back the sheet covering the deceased's head. All three were silent as they beheld the grotesque form before them.

"That's her, is it?" Mycroft asked, looking at his brother.

"Show me the rest of her," Sherlock demanded. Molly looked puzzled but obliged. Sherlock looked the corpse up and down once, twice, then declared, "That's her," and immediately left the room.

For the second time that night, Molly felt a heavy weight in her chest. Sherlock had somehow known the victim…_by her nude body? But…no, that was impossible. Was it?_ The thought made her feel sick.

"Who is she? How did Sherlock recognize her from…not her face?" Molly asked Mycroft. She couldn't explain why, but she had to know.

Mycroft's only response was to give her a sad smile before he too left the room.

Molly quickly recovered the corpse and left the morgue through the opposite door, unable to spend another second with the dead woman nor bear the thought of encountering Sherlock in the hallway. She raced home as quickly as she could, heedless of the slippery snow, and barely made it to her flat in one piece. Once there, she collapsed on the sofa, and, for the first time since that cold, cruel consulting detective had irrevocably captured her heart, Molly gave in to her feelings and openly sobbed.


	6. What You Need

**_A/N:_**_ Thank you all so much for the kind reviews! Please know they mean a lot to me, even if I am just writing these for fun. Here's the final chapter - re-watching scenes from The Reichenbach Fall to fact-check things just made me all sorts of depressed, but I'm happy with it. Hope you enjoy - series 3 can't come soon enough! :)_

* * *

It had been over a year since the disastrous Christmas party. Molly had done her best to forgive and forget – that is, she'd cried that night until she could cry no more, and then worked to move on. She knew she was setting herself up for failure if she chose to ignore the fact that Sherlock, by his very nature, was inevitably going to hurt her if she remained in his company. As the alternative – cutting herself off from Sherlock completely – was unbearable (not to mention impractical, given how often he showed up at Bart's), she'd decided it was best to accept the notion and deal with it as best she could. It was a sad situation, but Molly cared too much for Sherlock to have it any other way.

As for the corpse, she'd known she'd never get a straight answer from Sherlock, so she'd asked John instead, and John, loyal to Sherlock though he was, had felt so bad for Molly – she suspected he understood more about the gift debacle than he let on – that he'd told her everything. Molly now knew who Irene Adler was, what she had done, and why Sherlock had been able to identify her the way he had. It still made her angry inside to think of Irene parading around _au naturel _in front of Sherlock – Sherlock was _hers_, even if only in her mind – but at least Molly could rest a little easier knowing that Sherlock's knowledge hadn't come from…a more intimate encounter. Besides, so far as John had told her, Irene was now dead. Molly felt wicked for thinking it, but she felt a little better knowing that too.

Now, so many months later, things were back to normal – or at least as normal as they could be when one of your frequent companions is Sherlock Holmes. Cases, accompanied by bodies, came and went with the days, and Sherlock, Molly noticed, seemed to be a little more careful about what he said to other people. Maybe the events of the Christmas party had affected him more deeply than she'd originally thought.

One afternoon, however, Molly noticed a slight but troublesome change in Sherlock. She'd been on her way out of Bart's to meet a friend for lunch when Sherlock had met her in the hallway, produced two bags of crisps from his pockets, and insisted that she cancel the date and join him in the lab instead. He mentioned something about Moriarty and suggested she avoid all attempts at a relationship for the time being, to keep things easier. John, who had entered the hall just behind Sherlock, looked just as confused as Molly felt, but the two followed the consulting detective towards the lab, almost jogging to keep up with his long strides.

Half an hour later, Molly staggered back into the lab, her arms weighed down by a huge stack of books and files Sherlock had requested. She barely managed to get the pile onto the counter without tipping it over, then sighed. Sherlock, as usual, was too busy with his microscope to notice. John shot her a quick look of sympathy, then hastened to prepare a sample for Sherlock. Molly quickly noted what had already been done and started preparing her own work.

"Alkaline," she said determinedly as the Litmus paper turned blue.

"Thank you, John," Sherlock replied.

"Molly…" she said, annoyed.

"Yes…" he was distracted again. Molly began entering information into her computer, only mildly aware of the detective's occasional whisperings.

"I…owe…you…glycerol molecule…what _are_ you?" He sighed and refocused the microscope.

"What did you mean, 'I owe you?'" Molly asked. "You were muttering it while you were working."

"Nothing. Mental note," Sherlock said, a bit too quickly. Molly looked hard at him, and then it clicked. Something was wrong with Sherlock. He'd never admit it, of course, but the signs were there, and they were, as Sherlock would say, "obvious."

_"_You're a bit like my dad," Molly began, trying to decide how best to approach the subject. "He's dead. No…sorry."

"Molly, _please_ don't feel the need to make conversation," Sherlock told her, clearly exasperated. Molly cringed but continued, determined to say what she needed to say.

"When he was ... dying, he was always cheerful. He was lovely – except when he thought no one could see. I saw him once. He looked sad."

"Molly…" he warned.

"_You_ look sad...when you think he can't see you." She nodded towards John, who was busy sorting through papers across the lab and therefore unaware of their conversation. At her words, Sherlock turned and looked at Molly. At least she had his attention now.

"Are you okay?" she asked, and then, before he could respond, immediately added, "And don't just say you are, because I know what that means, looking sad when you think no one can see you."

"_You_ can see me," Sherlock said, as if this observation could easily counteract what she'd just said.

"I don't count," Molly said matter-of-factly. Somehow, it didn't hurt to say it as nearly as much as she thought it would. After all, it had always been that way. Coming to terms with the truth hurt, but not nearly so much as living a lie. It gave her the courage to go on. That courage almost failed her, however, when she saw Sherlock's stunned expression. Did he not believe her? Did he think that she counted? _No. Don't get your hopes up, Molly Hooper,_ she told herself firmly. _You know better. Just say what you need to say…for him._ Gathering her inner strength, she continued.

"What I'm trying to say is that, if there's anything I can do, anything you need, anything at all, you can have me." She flinched and averted her gaze. _Keep going. _"No, I just mean ... I mean if there's anything you need…it's fine." She shook her head and turned away.

"What…what could I need from you?" There was an uncertainty in Sherlock's voice that Molly had never heard before.

"Nothing." She paused and shrugged. "I'm just gonna go and get some crisps. Do you want anything?" Seeing he was about to say something, she added quickly, "It's ok, I know you don't."

"Well, actually, maybe I'll..." Sherlock began, but Molly wasn't going to let him have the last word.

"I know you don't," she finished firmly, and walked away. _Something is definitely wrong with Sherlock,_ she thought. _I may not count, but I can still help him if he needs it…and I will._

* * *

Several days later, Molly switched off the lights in the lab, utterly exhausted and more than ready to go home. Sherlock hadn't said anything more about their recent conversation, but Molly knew whatever was eating at him was getting worse – she could see it in the constant frown marring his beautiful features, the loss of the usual spark in his blue eyes. Molly knew it was no use probing him further on the subject. He would come to her when the time was right. She was just about to push the door open when a voice spoke from behind her in the darkness.

"You're wrong, you know." Molly jumped, her heart skipping a beat as she turned to face Sherlock.

"You _do_ count," he said earnestly. "You've always counted and I've always trusted you." Sherlock turned to face her.

"But you _were_ right. I'm not ok," he said.

"Tell me what's wrong," Molly said. Somehow, the sincerity of his tone proved to her without a doubt that every word was true.

"Molly, I think I'm going to die." His response did not shock her in the slightest.

"What do you need?" she asked. He slowly made his way towards her.

"Molly, if I wasn't everything that you think I am – everything that _I_ think I am – would you still want to help me?"

Molly looked into the consulting detective's face. In any other circumstance, Molly would have been content to lose herself in his eyes forever, to fantasize about stroking his dark curls or wrapping her arms around his thin frame, but not now. Clearly, now was the time, the moment when Sherlock had realized he needed her. His imploring gaze betrayed hurt, insecurity, and fear, the last of which affected her most of all. Molly had never seen Sherlock so vulnerable, so…_human._ His need broke her heart, yet strengthened her resolve at the same time.

"What do you need?" she repeated.

"You," he answered simply. She nodded decisively. She'd been there for him when it hadn't counted, and now, come hell or high water, she was going to be there for him when it did.


End file.
